History of the Grand City of Riev
See also: The Grand City of Riev Turn 0 }|turn00| It was said that the city had stood for a millennium; ever since the first men had settled there, guided by the one who had given them the gift: the great god Peregrinus. And so, for a thousand years, the ancient families had passed down the secrets of their craft from Lord Magus to firstborn, inscribing their magic crests in flesh with blood and ancient runes. A millennium of dazzling progress, prosperity and spellcraft had reigned since - as had a millennium of blood and strife. The Grand City of Riev has been ruled by an assembly of the Great Houses - forty aristocratic families of magi - ever since the last Magus-King was cast down nearly six centuries ago. The architects of that rebellion had decreed that from that day forward, every man would be a king, and power would be shared freely and equally between an assembly of the venerable Lord Magi. In principle, this would allow them to focus on the important task that Peregrinus had set before them in exchange for the gift of magic: reaching the root, and finding the origin of all life. In practice this arrangement has led to constant struggle within Riev, as members of the Great Houses agitate for power and jockey for influence. Alliances form and collapse with each gust of wind, and a skilled assassin can make a fine living serving as retainer to a Lord Magus. Throughout all of this, the city’s peace and independence has been maintained and guaranteed by the Order of the Falcon, a non-partisan group of knights sworn to eschew the practice of magic in favor of martial prowess. From the backs of the massive birds of prey who serve as their mounts, they keep the magi’s justice and protect the city from those who would do its people harm. Drawing their strength from the second sons of the Great Houses, as is their right, they have consolidated their power even as the advent of the airship has begun to revolutionize life in Riev. None of the Lord Magi have dared break this peace for over two centuries, respecting the authority of the Order even as it limits their own power - they know that should they choose to shed blood openly Riev will swiftly descend into chaos. And so life goes on. Grandmaster Dyne and his knights keep the peace, and the assemblymen of the Great Houses continue their scheming. But lately, whispers disturb the people - rumors swirl that the scryers of the magi witness new activity in the wider world. Remnants of the empire of Askael were gathering, agitating for power; a race of squat half-men had come together as one for the first time; a skilled and brutal warrior had finished uniting the clans of the Black Wind Marauders; the Hekta were stirring in their ancient places, ready to loose armies of the dead upon the living; and strange orange beast-men were wandering the world, searching for gold and slaves. These were strange times. But the Grand City of Riev had stood for a thousand years, and nothing was going to change that. }} Turn 1 }|turn01| Lyn watched, eyes fixed, as her father’s corpse was lowered into their family crypt. The man who had taught her everything that she knew of the world - of magecraft, of the city, of the gods - was dead. Murdered in the night by a cutthroat's blade. A priest of Peregrinus droned on about the beauty of death, how in its embrace all Magi were reunited with the root of the world, and there they could at last learn the answer to the questions which drove all the practitioners of their craft. ‘I suppose that was bound to happen,’ she reflected grimly. Idly, she rubbed her bandaged forearm, the space where her father’s magic crest had been transplanted days ago. It stung terribly, but it would not do to show weakness here. Beside her, her mother cried silent tears; eyes cast forward without seeing. Of the last twenty heads of the Great House of Corsaka, more than half had been cut down by hired blades. Their family had been responsible for maintaining the leylines of the Grand City of Riev for centuries - without access to these sources of prana (cosmic energy), no magus could carry out large scale rituals without spending months or years in preparation. (1-2, Research Power) Deciding who received access to this energy, and when, had left her family with a great amount of power and a greater number of enemies. “All those who possess power will have to pay,” she heard her father’s ghost whisper in her ear. “The greater the power, the higher the price.” Slowly, her hands clenched into fists, the knuckles turning bone white. Again her crest ached, but she ignored the pain. ‘I will live up to your legacy, father. I will make our family great - and I will make the ones who did this suffer.’ Not for nothing was Riev called the City of a Thousand Libraries - every Great Family hoarded knowledge for itself, and any magus worth his salt recorded the practice of his magecraft for his descendants to learn from. It would be impossible for any single man or woman to reach the root, and with it the truth of the world. Only a generational struggle would make such a thing possible. This was why they passed down their magic crests, bound to the skin with surgery, to their descendants. The deepest secrets of a family’s magecraft were recorded in the crest, alongside a number of their most powerful spells. But the crests alone could not contain all the knowledge that the next generation would need - and that was why even the most secretive and jealous magus recorded their work in tomes as well, despite the risk of them falling into the wrong hands. The only thing worse than the wrong people obtaining their accumulated knowledge would be nobody attaining that knowledge at all. To this end, there was a high demand in Riev for quality thieves - men and women willing to risk their lives to obtain incredible secrets and ancient texts. Any family of quality maintained a number of these rogues; the kind of secrets they desired could not be purchased in any shop. (3-4, Culture Research) Results +30 (86+4-60), +21 (77+4-60) -10 (46+4-60), +11 (67+4-60) Not for nothing was the House of Corsaka called Great. Beneath their property, beneath the family crypt, Lyn found the secret passage in her great-great-great-grandfather’s burial vault. It was the passage her father showed her when she was little. It lead into a cavern lit from deep below by a low, thrumming light, and as she stepped lightly down a carved stair smoothed by generations of use, descending deeper and deeper, the light grew. At the bottom, the rock suddenly changed, turning from unremarkable rock wall to a floor of blue iron ringed by concentric circles. Lodestone. As she crossed the rings across its surface, fingers of blue ran through the black, outlining imperfections and sending wispy ephemera into the air. Bits of lightning stone, chipped and free from the vein underfoot, tumbled out of her way, licked by blue fingers to spin weightless away. At the center, a circle lay carved into the very iron. Here was the nexus of ley energy of the entire continent. Her birthright. Under her care and attention, it had grown potent, sizzling in the air. Raw power, hers to command. She stepped into the center circle, sitting down for her evening lessons. With her father gone, this would be her teacher. (+6 Power Tech) Among the thaumic sensations, the magnetic lightning coursing around her, Lyn felt a presence. Something was with her in the cavern. She spun, leveling her arm at it. Her magic crest grew hot on her arm. Standing at the foot of the stairs, keeping to the last step before the fearful lodestone, a cloaked figure stood. A hood shrouded its head, and a skull-faced mask covered its face. It bowed, and Lyn lowered her arm, her crest cooling. “I don’t remember permitting you to enter this place, thief.” The figure reached into the folds of his cloak as it unbowed itself, producing a tome cradled in its arms. It looked old and gristly with age, but its binding glistened with rare metals and stones. “You found it?” Lyn said. “Bring it here?” The figure hesitated before stepping out across the lodestone, hefting the heavy thing to her. In the blue light, stains on its ragged, uneven pages showed almost black. It was a book of enormous history, and the first page showed its name: Blackwood. “You’ve done well,” Lyn said. “Leave us.” (+2 Culture Tech) (Your mage’s use of the leylines has exhausted them. No meta bonus next turn.) }} Turn 2 }|turn02| Caerwyn gripped the reins of his mount tightly as the two of them soared through their air. The falcon handled the open air with ease, gliding along the air currents and occasionally flapping his powerful wings. All the same, Caerwyn made sure to regularly check the straps binding him to the saddle. Flying over the open sky tended to be an unnerving experience, even for the most seasoned members of the Order of the Falcon. Beneath him, the Peregrine Sea yawned out wide, a bottomless chasm of brilliant blue. The giant falcons for whom the sea had been named, and whom the order used as mounts, could be found only here - they lived on the coastlines, hunting skyfish and roosting atop trees and in the caves which dotted the edges of the continent. The magi liked to say it had been named for god of magecraft, Peregrinus, but the knights knew the truth: this was the domain of their winged companions. His Order was out in force today, threescore of them flying in formation. They were arrayed in three arrows, each stacked on top of one another; this was so that anyone on the ground would have difficulty discerning their true number. They were clad for battle, girded in mail and bearing steel, their sky-blue cloaks billowing out behind them. It was a beautiful sight, one that filled Caerwyn with a sense of purpose - this was where he belonged, this was where he was meant to be. He still worried for his mother, and his little sister Lyn, but she had always been the strongest of the Corsaka children. She would be a fine family head, even if she didn't know it yet. His thoughts are brought back to the task st hand as their destination comes into view: the Sealing Isle lay open before them, an untamed wilderness of hills and forests. Unbidden, the words of the grandmaster returned to him. --- “Ah, Corsaka. Good. I've a task for you,” he had said, his voice grave. They had met in Dyne’s office, where the Old Bear was brooding over sheafs of parchment. “It's been determined that the head of the Llewyn must be sealed.” At that, Caerwyn had raised an eyebrow. The Llewyn were a young family, they had been magi for three generations - he found it doubtful that any of them would warrant sealing. “Aye,” Dyne had continued. “He's lost it. From what I've been able to learn, he's become obsessed with the idea that the root will appear at world’s end. It's a simple enough conclusion - even a child knows that the Swirl of the Root was there when the world was born, so it ought to show up again when it dies.” Dyne turned to look out the window, sighing deeply. “The problem is that the bloody fool has figured out how to use a bounded field to accelerate the passing of time. As of now, he can't affect much more than his own body - thank Peregrinus. But tampering with time is madness, and extraordinarily dangerous; this is not the first time the Order has had to stop such a thing.” His frown soured further, and he sighed deeply. “Unfortunately, he knows that as well. My agents tell me he has already fled the city. Take 60 men with you and bring him back; if he resists, bring his corpse with his magic crest intact.” --- In their quest to maintain order in Riev, one of the most powerful weapons the Order of the Falcon had to call upon was the Sealing Designation. A magus whose research was found to endanger the city as a whole could be sealed. They would be forcibly imprisoned, and their records seized. There are few things that the magi fear more. They were not, however, forbidden from pursuing their research; to the contrary, they were forced to continue their work in a limited capacity under Order supervision, and to follow the rules set down by their captors. In this way, the Falcon Knights repurposed the magecraft which threatened Riev in order to protect it. The same would doubtless happen to Llewyn. (1-2 Power, 3 Culture in Riev) Consequently, sealed magi almost universally fled the city - and when they did, they tended to run to the Sealing Isle. For centuries the Order had led hunting parties here, rooting out and capturing renegade magi. Now, Grandmaster Dyne intended to go further. Once they had captured the man, Caerwyn and his men had been charged to garrison the island permanently - no longer would the isle be an easy refuge for the hunted. (4 Expand to the isle due east, +10 from Sea bonus) Results +12, -21, +36, +36 Ancient men hunted by running, not by running faster than their prey, but by running them down. The human form is perfect for long-distance running, the leg muscles composed like long springs. All it takes to run down something bigger or stronger than you is fear and a calm, even stride. They’d been tracking the man for days. Whenever they got close, he’d disappear. He moved with incredible speed, but he always left a trail, and he was getting slower, taking greater strides with his time altering magic, despite how his prana must be waning. Once, a Falconer laid hands on him, and he shot off into the island’s growth without bothering with his would-be captor, letting him watch his egress. He was getting careless. When they caught him, he was curled up in a hollow, sleeping the sleep of the dead. (+2 Power, +6 Culture) By the time he awoke, he woke not in a hollow, but in a warm room, the fire going in the fireplace. He looked around it, a sinking feeling in his chest. This room was not entirely unlike his little cabin. For one, all of his research, his many leather tomes and cord-bound stacks and loose sheafs, piled at complete random at a desk. There was a knock at the door. The door, it was made of solid, corrugated metal. Surely, if the Order knew what it was doing, every inch of this place would be impregnable. A window in the rafters was barred and grated. He couldn’t even get his pinky out. There was another knock at the door, the metal vibrating. He held his head in his hands. At least he could continue his work. They wouldn’t let him stop. (+3 Colony struck on The Sealing Isle! You’ll need another success to expand it into a full province.) }} Turn 3 }|turn03| Ilchymis, Alayne, and Elias worked their way down the busy boulevard, their shadows growing longer as the sun sank lower in the sky behind them. Each of them was clad in a robe the color of dull copper, each pinned by the same golden brooch - an inverted triangle, with a line running through the center. The alchemical symbol for gold, and the mark of the Guild of Alchemists. “Ilchymis! Ilchymis!” Alayne said, the frustration in her voice mounting. “I know you can hear me! This is a stupid idea, and you know it! You’re going to get us all in trouble, or worse!” “I’m well aware, Alayne,” Ilchymis replied, glancing over at his companion. “It’s just that I don’t really care.” Elias nodded, not speaking, and the two continued on, leaving Alayne agape behind them. “Idiots!” she exclaimed to herself, hurrying after them. When the trio stopped some fifteen minutes later, they were standing in front of a building, three stories high and bedecked with large glass windows, stained in many different colors. Above the large oaken double doors a brass sign reading “Ancestor’s Heritage” swayed back and forth in the wind. “Please,” Alayne pleaded, “can’t we just go back to the guild hall?” “No,” Ilchymis and Elias replied at the same time, before stepping through the doors. The bar was packed tonight, and raucous; but after the three alchemists entered a hush fell over the room. Ilchymis, unperturbed, led the group to the barkeep, a large man with a neatly combed black beard. “Three pints,” he said, in a tone that betrayed no nervousness. The barkeep regarded him seriously for a moment before shrugging, and reaching for the glasses. “Sit down over there - and don’t cause any trouble,” he said, nodding at an empty table. Once the group was seated with drinks in hand, Ilchymis turned to Alayne and shrugged. “See? No trouble at all.” Alayne merely sighed and shook her head, pointing behind Ilchymis. Turning, he saw them - a group of five sneering young men approaching, all wearing ornate robes and the telltale silver jewelry of magi. “The Heritage is for magi, not goldpissers. Isn't it enough that you fakers pollute real magecraft? Now you're stinking up our bars too?” “Ah,” said Ilchymis, smiling. “You guys see that? The famed magus etiquette. Centuries of breeding and refinement have left us with this bubbling mass of filth.” “You should know better than to speak that way to your superiors,” the lead magi spat through gritted teeth. He pulled his robe back, revealing a short sword with a jewel in the hilt - an Azoth Sword, a powerful conduit used for amplifying spells and storing prana. “Your guild masters show the proper respect - they roll over for the Great Houses and the Lord Magi like the dogs they are.” “And why should I respect you?” Ilchymis retorted, slowly rising to his feet. “You've never worked a day in your life. You think you're some great damn mage because your aresehole of a daddy told you so, and his daddy told him, and so on all the way back to the first lord of this hole we call a city. It's us who make the weapons that protect Riev, us who arm and armor the knights, and us who make your artifacts - and now, you have the nerve to threaten me with a weapon one of my brothers or sisters probably made. You’re a joke. Way I see it, we don't even need you lot anymore - put us in charge and we'll reach the root in a decade.” For a moment the magus is silent, apoplectic with rage, before breaking into a wide grin. “I'll have your hands for that, you filthy fucking faker,” he said, drawing his sword and taking another step towards Ilchymis. From there, things fell apart quickly. Ilchymis raised his fists and ducked into a fighter's stance as the other magi moved to surround him. Elias rose to his feet and, drawing a dagger from the inside of his robes, stepped towards the lead magi - at the same time, Alayne cried out, “No!” An enormous BANG from the bar stopped them all in their tracks, and the bartender swore loudly. He had a pistol in each hand, and one was smoking from the end. “I DON'T CARE IF YOU'RE A MAGUS OR AN ALCHEMIST OR A BLOODY KNIGHT, NO FIGHTING IN THE HERITAGE! I'LL CALL THE FALCONS IN HERE, JUST YOU FUCKING WATCH,” he yelled, his deep voice booming over the bar. For a moment silence fell over the room, before the lead magi sheathed his blade. “You'll regret this, goldpisser,” he said to Ilchymis, before turning and stalking out of the bar, his companions following close behind. “See, Alayne?” Ilchymis said, settling into his chair and taking a drink. “That went perfectly well.” (Alchemist's Guild, 1-4 meta income) Results -4, -48, +29, -14 It is often remarked by learn’d academics that the best ideas come not from contemplation of geometries at a blackboard but from the contemplation of froth at the local pub. That’s half the truth. “I’ll smash his skull in,” Ilchymis said. “You’ll do no such thing,” Alayne said. “I agree,” Elias said. “Much too crude.” “Really? How big of-” “What he needs is someone to put that old piece of pig iron in between his ribs,” Elias said. “How’s that for Ancestor’s Heritage?” Alayne scoffed, tucking into her brandy cakes. Ilchymis grinned, lifting up a mug of inspiration, clicking it against Alayne’s, and gulping it down. A ring of chairs clacked down around them. Before they could rise, hands clapped onto their shoulders. The fourth seat, empty at the table, turned around, setting down backward as a guy sat -- a green robe trimmed with spirals of white and silver. “Oh, no, don’t get up. Please,” he said. He pulled his finger across his upper lip, tugging an imaginary moustache into shape and sneering. It was — if such a thing is possible — a good-natured sneer. Alayne sighed. “What do you want?” she said. “Well; My name is Chrysol,” he said. “These are my compatriots. We have a proposition for you.” “How very direct.” “And so charming!” Ilchmyis said. “Why — I’ve never been propositioned before.” “You seem to be on certain terms with my friend Garion. You know him, surely: the territorial androgyne. What you may not have guessed — no insult — is that he and his goonies are expecting to catch back up with you tonight. Waiting for you in an alley somewhere.” Chrysol rolled up the sleeves of his robe, crossing his tattooed arms on the chairback. “Well; I’ve come into some lucky money, and it’s really putting a strain on my purse-strings, and you all seem like alright fellows. The proposition:” He pulled something out of his robe, tossing it up and regrabbing by its leather-wrapped handle. A blackjack. A length of braided twine hung down, a ring swinging hypnotically at the end. Ilchymis’s eyes followed it, and he grinned, taking the thing from him and waving it around beneath the table. “Smash his skull in,” he said with glee. “That’s a lad.” “Absolutely not,” Alayne said. “It’s dangerous. And we’re not going off to kill a man, no matter how vile he is.” “Oh, don’t kill him,” Chrysol said. “No no, that’d be problematic. Just beat the moonlights out of him. Here:” He pulled another blackjack out of the folds of his . Elias reached for it, leaning across the table, but Chrysol tutted, proffering it instead to the girl between them. “No,” Alayne said. “You’re all vicious idiots! No!” Ilchymis woke up to sun (gold’s astronomical connection), a lip smeared in dry blood (which has certain connections to gold), and to a throbbing headache (which has fewer alchemical connections). He groaned, and he turned over, putting the sun to his back. In his shadow confronting him -- shrugging beside his pillow -- sat a green suede coinpurse, and, beneath his head, hard on his cheek, the handle of a blade. He dragged it out with wide eyes. An Azoth Sword. Quite old, actually; not the rude, gaudy thing it seemed when it was slung from a belt. Something of this calibre was hardly a sword, rather more a piece for quiet study. It filled him with images of family trees and birthright ceremonies and old masters locked in their ateliers. And then it filled him with images of a lot of very angry faces. One of them was Alayne. He groaned, laying his head back on the pillow. Meta-Income }} Turn 4 }|turn04| Ilchymis, Alayne, and Elias walked through the darkened streets of Riev with their cloaks drawn tight. Snow fell steadily from the heavens, and the group stuck close together. Ilchymis noted that there were more paupers on the streets than normal. Typical of the winter months. Elias had both hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his cloak, and it was obvious to his compatriots that he had a knife ready. This was, after all, a bad neighborhood. “Are you still,” Alayne asked, her breath fogging as she spoke, “sure about this? I don't trust Chrysol.” “Neither do I, replied Ilchymis. “He's a petty criminal, but even petty criminals have their uses.” Elias nodded, and Alayne shook her head, stewing frustratedly. “You really have no complaints about this, Elias? You're fine with us risking our guild memberships for some mobster?” Again, Elias nodded. “Even if he doesn't look it, Ilchymis knows what he's doing.” Ilchymis chuckled appreciatively, before coming to a stop and nodding at a nearby building. “We're here.” The group stood before a dilapidated townhouse, with broken windows and peeling paint. Alayne wrinkled her nose, but remained silent. The trio ascended the stairs, and Ilchymis knocked thrice. A moment later, the door opened a crack, and a fierce looking blue eye peered out and regarded them. Wordlessly, Ilchymis handed the man the letter Chrysol had sent him, and a moment later the door swung open. They were greeted by a massive muscle-bound man, his head shaven clean and grasping a well-worn pistol in his off-hand. “Upstairs. First door on the right.” A moment later, the trio stood before another closed door. “Enter,” rang out Chrysol’s voice, and the group did so. Chrysol rose to greet the trio as they entered the dilapidated dining room, spreading his arms out wide in a welcoming gesture. “Ah! My favorite alchemists return! Always a pleasure to see you all.” He smiled an easy smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. Turning, he addressed the figure beside him, an old and grizzled bear of a man. “Grandmaster Dyne, these are the ones we discussed. Ilchymis, Alayne, and Elias.” Eyes wide with shock, Alayne spoke first. “Hold on a… when you say ‘Grandmaster' that's some kind of bad joke, right?” Snorting amusedly, Dyne shook his head. “I'm the real thing, miss. I’m hoping the three of you are as well.” “B-but if you’re r-really who you say you are… Why on earth are you meeting with him! He’s a criminal, you should be arresting him!” Dyne cocked an eyebrow questioningly, before chuckling. Chrysol mimed a look of pain, clutching his hand over his heart. “How you wound me, my dear lady. And here I was, trying to help save this blasted city.” Alayne glanced between the two suspiciously, face red, until a voice rang out. “I want to hear them out, Alayne,” Ilchymis said, eyes locked on Grandmaster Dyne. “I always figured I would meet you, but not until I became a Master.” He grinned. “Looks like I’m ahead of schedule.” Dyne did not deign to reply, instead shaking his head exasperatedly and waving a hand at Chrysol. “It’s pretty simple,” Chrysol said. “We need you to make some gold. A lot of it.” “That’s… we can’t do that,” Alayne replied. “One of the core tenets of our order is that we can’t make artificial gold. We would make it useless, we could ruin Riev’s economy...” “And if there were a good reason?” Dyne said. “If it was to save the city? Chrysol and I have reached an understanding born of necessity. It is my hope that you will come to see things as we do.” “It… It depends on what the reason is.” Alayne said, her expression troubled. “Very well,” Dyne replied, deadly serious. “All I ask is that you hear me out. The city… stands on the brink of famine, young ones. This is a harsh winter, and last season’s harvests were not nearly enough to feed everyone living in Riev. If the situation remains as it is, thousands will die. I have the knights-in-training at work on the Sealing Isle, but there are too few of them and too many mouths to feed.” (1, Turn my colony into a province) “What of the estates?” Ilchymis queried, head cocked to one side. “The lord magi hold almost all the land surrounding the city, their ‘servants’ farming the land for their profit.” Dyne snorted derisively. “The magi have no interest in grain. Their fields are full of wine grapes, beehives and silkworm sheds. There is not a single forward thinking magus among the landowners. And none of them have any interest in selling the land to the knights, so that the citizens of this city might avoid starvation.” “Typical,” Elias muttered, his face dark with anger. “And the freemen?” Ilchymis asked. “There are at least a few non-magus landowners, no?” “They have so little land it isn’t worth discussing. If a few of them could consolidate several farms into one large estate, it’s possible they could make a difference… but that’s also a part of my plan.” (2-3, Income in Riev) Alayne spoke up, her tone serious. “How does counterfeiting a lot of gold prevent the city? Are you sure this one,” she nodded towards Chrysol, “isn’t just trying to line his pockets?” Leaning forward, Chrysol spoke. “We need the three of you… to spark a gold rush.” A moment of silence passed, and then Ilchymis said what they had all been thinking. “Explain.” “You’ll go south with a caravan of ‘settlers’ - unaware civilians and a few knights in disguise. While you’re there, find a body of water, and turn as much of the riverbed as you can manage into gold. Once the rumors, and a few chunks of gold, reach the city, there’ll be a stampede to settle - especially given how many people are on the brink of starvation already. Some of the minor landowners will sell off their properties to their neighbors, who can consolidate their farms. Once these people find out they’ve sold everything they own, but there’s no gold, they’ll start farming the land to survive.” Dyne sighed, his face weary. “Truthfully, I expect a number of the settlers to die before the wildlands are tamed. It is a cruel plan. But I would do worse to keep the city safe.” (3, expand south) “You’re asking us to put ourselves at a lot of risk,” Alayne said, frowning. “If we get caught, there’ll be no saving us - we’ll lose our guild memberships, and like as not some angry mage will have us murdered in our beds. I also really don’t like this at all. It makes all the names they call us - goldpissers, fakers… it makes them look justified.” Alayne sighed deeply, before looking up, determinedly. “But… I’m on board. I don’t want to see people starving in the streets. What do you guys think?” “What’s in it for us?” asked Elias. “Elias!” Alayne shouted reproachfully. “Nothing’s free, Alayne. Equivalent exchange, yeah?” “Your patriotic duty?” replied Dyne, to which the young man snorted. “I am a man of no small influence. The Guild respects my authority, and they will listen to my council. Do this for me, and I will make sure that each of you rises to a position of authority… and there’s a coin purse for you as well, if that’s all you care about.” Elias regarded Dyne for a moment, before nodding. Both the grandmaster and Chrysol looked at Ilchymis, their expressions expectant. “I’ll do this for you, Grandmaster. But you’re going to owe me a favor. When the time comes, I’ll expect you to make me whole. That alright with you?” Silence reigns over the table, before Dyne chuckles and nods. “Fair enough. Not like I haven’t broken enough rules already today. Let’s drink to our accord.” Results -16, +13, +05, +30 For The Desk of The Minister of The Assembly Of Lords, It should behoove the Minister and the Assembly to know that our investigation into the nature of claims regarding the land to the north — namely gold — has turned up no evidence of malfeasance either on the part of Alchemists or parties otherwise identified in our previous report. Upstream from the lake of inquiry (called “Goldlake” still by prospective locals), a single vein of gold was found, and it is the work of little deduction to find this discovery of wealth to be mere waste from a long, depleted mine. It is beyond the nature of this investigation to decide if there is, candidly, gold in the hills, but it is the view and authority of the investigators to assuage the guilt laid upon the Alchemists of Riev and to henceforth clear their collective name of this scandal. ~ From The Desk of Grandmaster Dyne ADDENDUM: It should also behoove the Lords, despite the lack of ore, that the scandalous land is nevertheless for aught, and that its continued settlement would prove the benefit to the ready and bountiful supply of all the Great Houses. (Expansion Successful! +4 Power, +3 Income, +3 Culture) “Well how was I supposed to know?” Ilchymis said. He set his tea-cup (stark, white porcelain) on its saucer (matching), and placed it on the tablecloth (a shifting pattern of white and silver that seemed to repel all food and drink spilled upon it, which was more than a little). He picked up a scone (a heavenly biscuit composed of flour, fat, milk, and blueberries, all ingredients that originated from within view of the tea parlor’s own windows). “It worked,” he said. “And it was your idea to make so much of it, anyways.” Alayne’s eyes bugged out from under her fascinator (a very fancy sort of hat for drinking tea) before she regained her senses, sipping from her teacup. “I said ‘enough to look natural’. I don’t think a solid gold riverbed is particularly ‘natural’. You’re lucky it’s easier to turn gold into lead.” “I’m lucky?” Ilchymis said. “Where’s Elias?” “He didn’t tell you?” Alayne said. “He’s taking tea with more important people. Possibly a sponsor.” Ilchymis tried to hide his grumpiness in his cravat (necktie, used by certain up-and-coming ne’er-do-wells as a handkerchief or napkin) as Alayne took another sip of tea. (+5 Income in Riev) (Expansion failed. -10 Wealth.) }} Turn 5 }|turn05| The coming of the Glass Moon had brought an air of frenzy to the city of Riev, calling to the fore the repressed energies of nobles and commoners alike. All throughout the streets were wild, consumed by feasting, fighting, and drunken revelry. During the occulting, the common folk gained certain liberties, an ancient practice meant to relieve tension during the starving season. While the knights patrolled the skies and tried to manage the chaos from the rooftops, the alchemists prepared a grand convocation, recording the effects of a full occulting on their experiments. Giddy with excitement, the gold-cloak masters barred their ranks from partaking of the celebration, and the apprentices grumbled angrily, sipping surreptitiously concealed flasks. (1, Culture Riev, 2 Income in Riev) For the upper crust of Rievan society, the occulting provided a different sort of opportunity for debauchery and decadence. The richest and most powerful families of the city hosted lavish balls and parties for moon-viewing, the wine flowing freely and the music loudly. Up-and-coming magi rubbed shoulders with Order leadership and those alchemists wealthy enough to buy an evening’s freedom; debutantes danced, duels were fought, and the elders gazed skyward, eyes protected by powerful sets of silver spectacles. In back rooms and hidden chambers, secret accords were made and dark plots hatched; men were poisoned, heirs abducted, and ancient treasures stolen. Ambient energy of the Glass Moon suffused the air and their bodies with an intoxicating power, and the magi ran wild, drunk on it. But other magi thought better of joining hands with their fellows. The occulting was a time of great magical potential, wherein the ambient prana of the world was filtered through and suffused by the most powerful lens in existence - the Glass Moon. Rituals which might take months could be completed in a single night, and a middling magus might reach out and graze a miracle. For the established Lords-Magi, in their arrogance, this was dismissed as a shortcut and an insult to their long lineages. But for the average, the weak, and the desperate the occulting was a time of great potential. (3-4, Power in Riev) Lyn, of the Great House of Corsaka, was none of those things. She was a gifted magus for her age, a worthy heir to her father, and hungry for revenge - and tonight, she would try for a true sorcery. Standing, Lyn surveyed the magic circle before her, etched into the ground and filled with quicksilver, purchased from the guild. Though she was deep beneath the earth, in the hidden tunnels below the Corsaka estate, she could feel the energy both within her and around her, the hidden leylines maintained by her family humming in response to the moon’s power. Within her circle - a relatively straightforward set of four runic symbols and interlinked circles - the quicksilver flowed cyclically, drinking up the prana streaming off of the leylines. Stepping back, she withdrew a pewter pocket watch and checked it, nodding to herself before stowing it away. It was two hours past midnight, and her magical energy would soon reach its peak. Kneeling, she deposited a small quartz in the center of the circle, and watched it glow brightly and then ignite into a blue flame, burning away. The quicksilver had absorbed enough power. Rising, she looked over the circle, reciting the incantation to herself. Bouncing on the balls of her feet, she spoke aloud, preparing. “Alright, Lyn… this is your first and last chance to pull this off, so no mistakes!” she sighed, closing her eyes. When they opened, her green irises blazed with determination, and she began to speak, words weighted down with power. “Turn, and turn, and turn, and turn. Fill, and fill, and fill, and fill. For every cycle, sacrifice. For every sacrifice, reward. O great Peregrinus, bless my craft.” She raised her right hand, gripping her forearm with her left. Her magic crest lit up as energy coursed through it, her face locked into stony concentration. Reaching deep within herself, she grasped the power of the leylines, using the magecraft her family had honed over many generations. Opening the floodgates, prana poured into her and into the circle before her. In that moment, Lyn ceased to be human, becoming a mere tool of the ritual. The quicksilver glowed and circled faster, and her arm burned hot with energy, as though melting. “I declare - Thy body will by thy gift, granted in trust. Thou will become my sword, and I will determine thy fate. Make an oath here! For leal service, compensation! Come forth, ancestor of the moon! Submit!” Lyn finished with a shout, gritting her teeth through the pain. The circle before her cycled violently, quicksilver leaping into the air and crackling with power. Before she could act, a massive explosion burst from the circle, and the young magus flew backwards, crashing into the tunnel wall and slumping to the ground. When she opened her eyes, a monstrous blonde woman towered over her. Bemused crimson eyes gazed down at Lyn. “Well, well - are you my lord? I have come,” she said, lips quirked in a grin, “to answer your summons.” Lyn found herself unable to speak, transfixed by the woman’s gaze. The blonde’s smile widened, a set of wickedly sharp teeth glinting in the low light. Results 77(+29), 82(+31), 35(-17), 33(-19) Lyn watched as her prize was lowered into a glass ball: a stunning, long-finned goldfish. The man at the string-fishing stand ran his hand along the ball’s top hole, a bit of sleight of hand while he closed it up with gutter magic. He tapped the glass where the hole just was, turning it over to demonstrate the completeness of the sphere — a feat that was supposed to wow the commoners. He handed her prize to her, nodding and grinning like a fire-addled salamander. Over at the corner, an evangelist of Peregrinus belted on about the beauty of the Glass Moon, how in its full light all Magi were blah-blah-blah. Despite the cheap tricks and the incessant sermoning, she was having fun. The commoner’s festival would go until the moon set. Lyn wouldn’t stay out that late. Well, she shouldn’t. She beamed, lifting the goldfish orb, so her companion could see. “Look! I-” She stopped. In the moment, she’d forgotten the blond creature she’d brought here. Her red eyes didn’t turn to look at Lyn. They stood amongst the other string-fishers — children trying to catch goldfish with comically large hooks attached to string. They were younger than Lyn by leagues, and all of them were without chaperones. They kept stealing sheepish glances or outright staring at the enchanting woman in her sumcolor robes. She was oblivious, aloof instead to the passing crowd, her crimson eyes flitting between hundreds of hands and waists and eyes with inhuman ease. An Ancestor, Lyn had to remind herself. She’d brought forth servants before, but that was nothing. They were just puppets, dolls with hidden hands. Seeing her now triggered a fit of clarity. In a roundabout way, she was the reason they were out here, attending a commoner festival of all things. “I still don’t have a name to call you by,” she said. “Don’t you think that’s silly?” The Ancestor bristled, her neck and jaw muscles solidifying. After the ritual, she was full of wild energy. In fact, in the rush of curiosity, both of them had let their noble stature slip as they exchanged questions. Until one question: a name. “Look,” she said. “I get it. You’re not like any servant I’ve had before. Besides, I nearly dried up the leylines today, so I thought…” She trailed off. The Ancestor’s eyes flitted to the orb in Lyn’s hands before returning to the crowd. “A fish,” The Ancestor said. “What an achievement.” Lyn brought the fish back down to her chest. “It’s a game. And it’s kind of hard, actually. You should try it.” The Ancestor yawned. She scanned the crowd. “Did you have to drag me along? You have a mother for this kind of thing, do you not?” Lyn’s fingers turned white as she gripped the orb. The sudden tremor shook the poor creature into a spiral. “She wouldn’t care,” Lyn said, lifting her chin. “Anyways, with you here, I don’t need a whole host of bodyguards.” “And why would a child your age need bodyguards?” “Were you even listening? I command a very powerful House. Give the other Houses one chance, and their thugs’d… kidnap me.” “Hmm…” the Ancestor mused. Lyn pointed across the way, to a ball-game stand. A cohort of drunk alchemists — robed in brilliant gold — were terrorizing it. There were three of them: one boy throwing ball after ball, his frustration mounting as the pins refused to fall for him; one girl beside him was also trying her skill, but she was so drunk that the balls went wide, sending the game-runners ducking as the three alchemists burst into laughter and half-hearted apologies; and the third, a boy struggling to stand under the weight of prizes stacked on his arms, grinning and blinking back sleep. “Or worse: them,” she said. “Alchemists. Dirty, pig-iron low-bloods.” The Ancestor blinked in frustration. Her head lolled back, looking up at the Glass Moon sparkling in the sky. She sighed beneath her breath. Lyn remained oblivious. “Here, hold this,” Lyn said. She dumped the sphere in the Ancestor’s fumbling hands, leaving her to juggle it between her fingers. “I think I recognize someone,” Lyn said. “We used to have the same tutor. Wait here, I don’t want you to scare him.” “What about-” “Wait here!” Lyn sped away, zigzagging toward a group of boy children hanging out by one of the bubbly drink stands. “Yes, master. Anything you say,” she muttered. “Doesn’t even know my name. Unbelievable.” She lifted the sphere, shifting its weight between her hands. Its glass reflected the festival beneath the moon, the people passing, and her in the middle of it, all of them trapped in a glass sphere together. The dual illusions of place and being faltered for a moment in her mind. Instead, she focused on the fish within the glass, and the other visions dropped away. It was trapped, but it didn’t seem to mind, it explored its domain, treating every pass around the ball like its first. A creature with a memory smaller than a pail of water. Its scales carried more memory than its mind, impersonating mica on a cool riverbed. As it swam around and around, she stared. Her ears pricked up at a distant sound: a pathetic cry for help. Lyn and the boys were gone. Lyn fell to the paver stones, coughing and grasping at her throat. One of the boys stood over her. His fists shook and his shoulders heaved as the boys behind him stood in shocked silence. His nose bled a thin line into the cut on his lip. “You don’t get it,” he said. “How could you? An only child. Everything always came so easy to you.” One of his friends piped up: “Hey man-” “Shut it!” he spat. Lyn rose to her elbow, her robe dragging across the dirty street. She drew a ragged breath. “What are you talking about?” she said. “I worked just as hard as-” “Shut up!” he shouted. He lunged forward, stopping just short of her as she scrambled back. “I didn’t sleep. I did nothing but practice and study, but no matter what I did, that stupid teacher wouldn’t shut up about you. Always Lyn, Lyn, Lyn.” His fists clenched white. “You didn’t even need it. You would’ve got your due anyways. But I lost my inheritance. I lost everything. Do you understand that?” His weight shifted, fist rising. Lyn’s head was numb, her shoes slipping on gravel. She opened her mouth, letting out a dumb yelp. Around the boys neck, a finger with a long, sharp nail slid. It drew him to a stop. He froze solid. “Would you like to truly lose everything?” the Ancestor said. “I have no qualms about killing children.” When she took her finger back, the boy slipped away, chasing after his friends who were already out of sight. Lyn rose shakily to her feet, mouth half-open in awe. She watched the boy disappear, turning her cool glance down to the orb gripped in one hand. She gasped. It was empty, nothing but a ball full of water. “O-oh no,” she said. “Where…” She shook her head, furious with herself. “I must have dropped him. That was careless. Careless.” “Calm down.” Lyn reached up, tapping the glass. The fish seemed to slide into view, first in slices, then all at once. It pecked at the Ancestor’s hands for a moment before forgetting its panic, returning to its circling. She lifted it to her face, her crimson eyes softening. “Thank goodness,” she said. “I’d still like a name,” Lyn said. “Of course,” she said. “I shall call her Inanna, after my beloved firstborn.” After watching the fish circle a few times, the ancestor felt a look of exasperation. She turned to Lyn, growing solemn, her red eyes were dull. “I know it’s been a long time, but have we really been forgotten?” she said. “Even if there’s nothing left, we left so much to remember us by. Didn’t we?” She shook her head, stealing back some of her original fire with a twitch of a grin. “I suppose you would call me Ningal.” (+6 Culture, +6 Income) }} Turn 6 }|turn06| The former Lord Jon Llewyn scanned the crowded wharves of Riev intently, scanning for the familiar blue eyes and shock of black hair. He knew that it was a fool’s errand trying to spot his son among the piers and docks, which were full to bursting with spectators - lowborn and high, knight and sellsword, all had come to see the Destiny’s maiden voyage. “Any sign o’ em?” said the man at his side. Clad in shining mail and wearing a brilliant blue cloak, the knight was barely twenty-and-two. “Told my old lady I’d look for her, but there’s no chance o’ that. Not a problem, though. I’ll have a nice tale for her about her beauty shining through the crush of bodies, calling out to me like a siren’s song… She’ll be ready to keep me in bed for a week after that, just watch.” “I thought you knights were sworn to celibacy,” Jon laughed. “Have you sullied your honor, Gil? What would the old bear say?” “Vows say we’re not to wed,” Gilan said, grinning widely. “I’ve no plan at all to marry Myra, m’lord, on my honor.” Gilan was Jon’s watcher, a knight of the order who had been charged with watching over a magus who had been sealed. At the first hint of treason or dereliction, Gil was duty-bound to kill his charge, but despite this he could not bring himself to loath the man. Gil was jovial, quick to laugh, and passing clever for a commoner. But the disgraced lord knew full well that should he think it necessary, the knight wouldn’t hesitate to carry out his duty. He had seen him at work in the field - his watcher was young, but skilled at arms, and Jon without his crest to boot. The order had stripped him of it and passed most of it onto his son, short the pieces relevant to his work. He hoped they hadn’t botched it too badly. “Since we’re stuck here, waving at these moonstruck fools, want to try explaining to me exactly how this works one more time?” “Seriously? The first half-dozen failed explanations didn’t deter you?” “Gimme the important bits, come on. I’m about to subject myself to your madness, after all.” “Well,” Jon began, drawing himself up, “it’s the same principle as my personal magic. You create a bounded field, and isolate the space within from the flow of time outside it - once you’ve done this, you can alter the rate at which the affected space experiences the outside flow of time. Faster, slower, or not at all. Understand?” Gil shrugged, but Jon pressed on. “I’ve always used it on limited environments - individual rooms or buildings, and more usually my own body. But the old bear saw what I didn’t - you can apply this principle to an entire ship, given enough work.” “Meaning…?” “Meaning that, in theory, I can make one ship travel twice as fast, three times as fast, four times as fast… without actually making any changes to the underlying ship. It’s not without risks, and it requires a good deal of magical energy to use as fuel, but if it works…” “... we might finally be able to escape the Peregrine sea.” Gil’s face scrunched up with irritation. “That still only sort of makes sense to a normal person, you know that right?” “Just watch, and make sure you’ve hooked yourself to the railing. The Navigator should be kicking things off any minute now. There’s going to be a bit of a jolt, but we should be able to cross the city in half the time it would normally take.” “And what if-” Gil’s voice cut out with a pop, as the Destiny disappeared in a flash of light. The crowds below instantly hushed, and stared up, eyes wide with fear, at the newly missing ship. (1-4, improve ships) Results +14, +18, +46, +25- ---- The ‘Encyclopedia Ars Magica’ is the longest continuously distributed work from the Order of the Falcon’s own publishing firm. It also happens to be the largest. Its section on ‘the empowerment and enlargement of spells’ takes up half of a volume by itself, bringing the tome to weight and dimension comparable to a small child or a large tortoise. It begins like this: Spellcraft--and in fact Magic in General--carries with it a necessary risk at whatever scale, so to Empower, Enlarge, or otherwise increase the basal effect of a Performance is therefore to multiply its ever-present risks while adding still other dangers besides. One might assume that an increase of effective magnitude would simply entail an equivalent increase in the components to compensate, but there are however many other considerations to take into account, including the latency of propagation, fluxical imbalances in the twin fields of prana and mana, and the disharmonics introduced by the flows in especially large channels, like the ones found in leylines or the venae cavae of large animals. This section… It goes on for quite a while, encompassing the rest of its considerable volume. The ‘Encyclopedia Ars Magica’ spans many dozens of volumes, and its syllabus alone has been known to kill small rodents when assailed from the height of a second floor window, usually by frustrated mages who have spent their fortunes on shelving. On the other hand, the ‘Trickster’s Manual of Mana’, published by a small independent firm in the Umbicaelus sea, has only this to say on the subject of the empowerment and enlargement of spells: Get your affairs in order, leave a note, and hold on tight. This is accompanied by a small table of weights and measures, and the next section is a brief style guide explaining the form and etiquette of informing happeners-upon of the grand, romantic tragedy of your mistake. Some versions also come equipped with assorted stationery and a neat, little slide-rule that doubles as a bookmark. The Trickster’s Manual sells rather better, as you can imagine. ---- When The Destiny stopped shaking, light had left the sky. Wind whipped across the deck, carrying with it fog that stunk of electrical storms. In the distance, lightning echoed through the pillars of dark structures. Jon shook with fear. “No, no no, not yet, not like this!” he muttered, his voice rising to a shout above the din. “We’re fools!” “What are you gibbering about?” Gilan shouted. “We’ve been ripped from time! Cast upon the shores of reality,” Jon said. “The world has been rent. It’s the end of ages.” “Oh,” Gilan said. “I see clouds.” After the initial shock, the crew were hastening about their duties. Lord Jon Llewyn blinked at the sky, stumbling to his full height. They were clouds, indeed. This wasn’t quite like what he thought The Deep would look like, but if they hadn’t slipped through the fingers of time, it was the only other explanation. They were going full speed, the wind of travel a clip stronger than the crosswind; at least they’d moved. “It’s just like you said,” Gilan said, looking around in wonder. “How many times faster do you think we just went? A couple hundred maybe? A thousand?” “Something tells me it didn’t work like that.” “Well why not?” “Er…” One of the men burst up through the door that led belowdecks, nearly tripping across the deck. “Captain!” he shouted. “We’ve already used over half our fuel!” The captain balked, turning toward Jon. “Can she take another round of whatever the blazes just happened?” “Absolutely,” Jon said. “Get us back to Riev as soon as humanly possible.” The crewman plunged back belowdecks. Jon turned back toward the deep expanse, and as he watched the ocean roiling around them, his bold face crumbled again. The captain shouted for all hands to brace, and the ship banked hard to one side. Every one of its control surfaces flexed, taking the strain of a full-speed turn. Halfway through the turn, there was a rumble from the sky below. Not the rumble of thunder, which was all around. It was a guttural rumble. The great sound shook and bubbled like a stomach settling. It climbed into higher registers, breaking at the top like a singer straining before dropping away to the bottom of its range. It was a whale song. Peering over the gunwales, the creature’s silhouette cleft lightning bolts. A shadowy dancer the size of a city arced through the Deep. All hands peered over the side, down at the mystic creature. Jon couldn’t look for long. The enormity of it all was getting to him, and he stumbled across the deck to the high-side to get as far from the enormity as possible. A flash of blue dove past the ship. Jon caught the image of a black eye big enough to swallow him whole. And then it was gone. He looked after it, but it left no trace, not even disturbing the air as it passed. “Did you see that?” he shouted to Gilan, who looked up from the low-side to shake his head. “It was a great bird! Huge! With a wing-span wider than this boat!” “I didn’t see anything,” Gilan said. There was a thumping like hail on the bottom of the boat. In seconds, a swarm of buzzing things came up around the sides. “Oh that?” Gilan said. “It’s just shrimp.” “No! That’s not what I saw.” There was another rumbling in the deep. The dancer’s shadow had changed. It was growing shorter, its tail whipping behind it. “Captain…” Gilan said. As the ship straightened out, the hair-raising thrum of energy pumped through the venous channel of the ship, the vessel shuddering from stern to bow. The sky darkened above as the shrimp fled upward. A shadow rose from below. It passed across the fog, growing greater and greater in size. A horizon rose around them, its only sound the whistling of wind through long, fibrous teeth. Slowly, and then altogether too quickly, the maw shut. The world turned black. The wind ceased. There was a rumbling growing closer, and the sickening, wet feeling of a great wall of flesh approaching faster and faster. ---- When the Destiny stopped shaking, light had filled the sky. In the distance ahead, Riev’s tallest spires glittered on the horizon. Jon relieved himself of his breakfast over the side of the ship. “In your own time,” Gilan said. “I think we all deserve an explanation.” short journey has given you a vivid vision of the deep, and with the efforts of your mages, the prospect of leaving Peregrinus is now more real than ever. discovered Improved Deep Sky Navigation! You gain +40 to rolls made to travel the Deep. }} Category:History of Al'jann